


The Point of the Sword

by wildestranger



Category: Swordspoint Series - Ellen Kushner
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-19
Updated: 2007-12-19
Packaged: 2018-01-25 07:30:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1639019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildestranger/pseuds/wildestranger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Kyros, an unexpected duel occurs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Point of the Sword

**Author's Note:**

> Written for thornsmoke

 

 

The duke's horses are fast, but the gates of the City are full of people, even at this early hour, people coming to sell or buy or deliver their wares, and so the carriage stands still. He could draw the curtains and hide in the dark inside of the carriage. It would probably be a good thing to do, to avoid detection, but the duke dislikes the idea of hiding. And this is the last time he will see the City.

He decides he is not going to miss it.

The other man, who sits beside him in his carriage, is not looking at the City. He has been quiet since they left the house, barely moving in his seat, but the duke knows he is not asleep. It has been too long a night for that, and too full of events.

It will be many hours until they reach the sea. They have provisions enough so that they won't have to stop for food and risk being arrested, but at some point they will have to change horses and give the driver a chance to stretch his legs. That won't be till later, though. And it's unlikely that the news will have spread so quickly so far.

It would probably be a good idea to sleep. But the duke has made a point of not doing things that are good for him, so he turns to the other man instead, smirking. His mouth is wide and thin, and curves with what could be vanity, or smugness, or mere unashamed glee. The duke is always unashamed.

And even though he cannot see, the other man smiles back.

"Shut up."

The duke's drawl is rusty, but it still produces a brief flutter on the other man's face. He takes some satisfaction in that.

"I didn't say anything."

The other man is smiling widely now, even as he turns to the front again. There are lines on his face, lines of laughter around his eyes and mouth, even though he is not a laughing man. The duke wonders, not for the first time, where those lines have come from. And who has been there to see them.

He watches, because he cannot not, now that he gets away with it.

He has almost dozed off when a hand falls on top of his on the seat. Alec doesn't move, doesn't open his eyes, but he does stretch his hand until it is wrapped around the other one. He doesn't dare smile.

"You were right."

The words are mumbled, barely heard over the noise of the road. But Richard's voice is equally quiet, and equally content.

"I know."

: :

The motion of the sea makes Richard sick. He lies in his cot, pale and sweating, an unmoving lump of silent misery while Alec pretends to read. He has even tried to be helpful, brought water and dry bread and a metal basin, but Richard had merely grunted at him and turned to face the wall. Now Alec has taken to sitting at the foot of the cot (the one-person cot that they share), flipping through pages, sometimes reading out a piece for Richard. It's never anything particularly interesting, but then again, his point isn't to entertain.

He also likes to keep a hand on some part of Richard. At the moment, his left hand is curved around Richard's ankle.

But when Richard speaks, it isn't to complain about Alec's sweaty hands, or about the chapter on agricultural reforms that Alec has just finished reading.

"I would have done it, you know. Fought that fight, for you."

Alec stills for a moment, then closes his book. His thumb begins to move, slowly, against Richard's anklebone. He makes sure his tone is light.

"You've fought many fights for me, Richard. That was a part of your charm."

Richard rolls on to his back, faces Alec. Alec pointedly doesn't look up.

"My only charm, you mean?"

There is nothing more than amusement in Richard's voice. He has always been generous that way.

"Hardly. You think I could have been swayed by only your sword, impressive as it is?"

"I sincerely hope that you are not making the pun I fear you are making."

Alec allows himself a malicious smirk, because Richard can't see it but also because he likes to indulge himself.

"Why, whatever do you mean?"

Richard doesn't answer and Alec doesn't bring it up again.

: :

Their house is white, like all houses on this island. The nearest village is a half an hour's walk away, a narrow road through a forest of cedar and cypresses that follows a small river. Far enough that Alec won't be bothered by curious neighbours, says Richard. Far enough that Richard can practice without being seen, says Alec.

The walls of their house are thick, with long narrow windows that let in light but keep away most of the heat. It never rains on Kyros, they'd been told on the way to the island, the ship's captain spinning tales of endless sun and sweet-smelling honey and smiling girls with tanned skin. It had rained when they arrived, a violent storm that had turned the village road into a river and forced them to wait two days in a tiny, foul-smelling inn.

But since then it has been only the endless sun, and Alec has smelled honey on Richard's lips and seen the smiles of the girls who come to wash their clothes and make their food. He sees Richard growing darker in the sun, lines forming on his waist and ankles after a day spent practising outside. There's an orchard next to their house, with trees full of small yellow fruit that Alec likes to eat while he watches Richard. Richard is shirtless and barefoot, covered in a light sheen of sweat as he moves, smiling at the sun. Alec smiles back and licks the sweat off Richard's skin.

: :

Kyros is sunshine and laughter, their little house set apart from others, sweet wine and the taste of honey, but it is also Richard and Alec, and Alec speaks while Richard fights.

The girl isn't even that pretty, or that whorish, but there is something about her that causes the words to slip out of Alec's mouth, almost without effort or conscious thought. Almost. Alec would not want to disclaim his responsibility, after all.

She moves too slowly between the tables, or smiles too wide at the customers, or bends down to catch Richard's words too quickly - too eager to please, perhaps, or too conscious of her ability to please. She smiles at Alec, and Alec smiles back, and feels, even though Richard can't see the malicious stretch of his lips, Richard's hand tighten on his knee.

"No, thank you, I'm looking to buy anything else tonight. No change left after the wine, I'm afraid."

If he sounded as innocent as he sometimes looks, Alec might get away with it. But he is always too aware of what he is saying, always revelling in it a bit too much, and the delight he takes in being obnoxious is too obvious for them to ignore.

Her father doesn't ignore it, but it is her betrothed who wants the fight, who throws beer ("a cheap and nasty beer", as Alec later remarks) at Alec's face and kicks his chair from under him.

Richard stands up, his face blank as it has not been since they left the City.

"My fight."

: :

There are things they don't say. Richard doesn't ask why he had to say it, why after all this time, why now. Alec doesn't ask if Richard can still fight. It's a fair trade.

: :

Some mornings Alec wakes because the other side of the bed is cold. It has been a long time since there was an other side to his bed, and he resents how quickly he has learned to depend on it, the warmth of another body, a constant body, limiting his sprawl.

It doesn't make him want to spread further, though. Instead, he gets up and goes to the window, watches the pale sunlight over the hills and the man fighting invisible opponents in the garden, his moves graceful and precise.

The grass is wet but Richard doesn't slip.

: :

The girls don't come in on morning of the fight. Alec wonders if it is a superstition of the island, not to set foot in the house of a man who might die, but then realises, when he finds Richard making coffee above the stove, that they have been asked to stay away. Richard dislikes distractions when he's preparing, he remembers. Distractions other than Alec, at least.

"Did you make some for me?"

Wordlessly, Richard hands him a cup. Alec considers letting it drop, but then remembers that there is no one there to clean the mess. Also, Richard might cut his foot, and that doesn't suit his plans for the day. Perhaps tomorrow.

Then Richard turns to him, and the hard look he gives Alec makes him want to push Richard against the wall and fall on his knees. He takes a sip of his drink instead.

"I can finish every fight you start."

Yes, I know, he thinks, but doesn't say. This should not be in doubt. But the tone of Richard's voice suggests that nothing more should, or can be said. That this is enough.

Alec sets down his cup and leans in to lick the coffee off Richard's lips.

: :

They do not fight to death here, not by intention at least. There is no code of swordsmen, no etiquette to duelling, and the man who is setting up the fight only shrugs when Richard asks about how the victor is determined. "You'll know," he says. "Until it's settled."

Richard nods, as if this had made it all clear. Alec rolls his eyes, but doesn't ask for more.

: :

Richard gets a cut on his arm in the first five minutes. It stains his white shirt, and Alec knows he should be paying attention to the swords, but he can't look away. He has not seen Richard bleed in a long time.

The other man doesn't bleed, but Richard's sword at his throat serves the same purpose. Alec grins with vicious glee at the girl, who is standing behind her father and clutching his arm. She doesn't seem to notice

: :

"I could have done it myself, you know. Fought the duel, I mean. I have done before."

"Stabbing Ferris with a nymph is not the same as fighting a duel."

"Perhaps not, but still. I would have thought of something."

"Poison at the tip of the sword?"

"Yes. Something like that. Or poison in his revolting, cheap beer before the fight. That would be even better."

"Then we would have been driven out of the village with pitchforks. If you're bored of the place, there are easier ways to leave. Ways that involve less badly sharpened blades."

"Aww, poor Richard, did you hurt yourself? Shall I kiss it better?"

A moment of silence, then a slow exhale of breath.

"If you like."

This time, the silence is longer. And when it ends, it is not by more words.

 


End file.
